A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [18]
I have never fainted in my life, but I would have done so on that street corner had it not been for the abrupt pain of an iron grasp on my arm and Holmes speaking fiercely in my ear.
"Good Lord, Russell, are you trying to reenact the accident? Come, you need to sit down. There's a café down the street."
Movement, faces peering, a deep and shaky breath and the roaring sound fading, Holmes' grip on my upper arm.
"Now sit down. I'll return in a minute."
Seated. Seeing the intricacy of white threads, interwoven, over, under, over in the cloth; two small perfect crumbs; the distorted face of an immensely pale blond woman in spectacles from the bowl of a spoon. I closed my eyes.
The gentle iron fingers returned, on my shoulder; a rattle of china came from in front of me. "Drink this." A hot cup was between my inexplicably cold fingers; scalding rich coffee and the fumes of brandy hit my throat and head in a rush of life. I sat for some minutes, eyes closed and two strong fingers steady on the back of my wrist. The urge to tremble lessened, then passed. I took a deep breath, glanced over at my companion, and reached for the coffee spoon to give my hands something to do.
"Did you have any of your breakfast this morning, Russell?" I shook my head briefly. "I thought not. Here, eat. Then we can talk."
Plates began to appear, and I forced some warm bread and oniony soup into my throat, and after a few swallows it was easier. Over the cheese, I looked up with a crooked smile.
"I'm sorry, Holmes. I saw ... there was blood on the kerbstone."
"Yes, I noticed. There is no need to apologise."
"I feel extremely foolish."
"The violent death of a good person is a severely disturbing thing, Russell," he said calmly. "Now, what did you find?"
In a moment, with an effort, I matched his tone.
"Her room. A maid, who told me without telling me that the room had been searched, carefully, between Wednesday evening and Thursday morning. Papers disturbed, bed undone and remade, that kind of thing. And, a letter." I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to him. "I couldn't decide whether or not to open it. You decide."
He did not answer, only put it carefully in an inside pocket. He put his hand in the air and asked the waiter for a bill and a cab.
"Where are we going now, Holmes?" I felt weak but was not about to let him know.
"A visit to Mycroft's rooms is, I believe, in order."
I was surprised. I had expected him to answer by saying Scotland Yard, or one of the half-dozen bolt-holes he kept throughout the city— but Mycroft? His corpulent, indolent older brother might indeed throw some light on the matter at hand, were it to be connected with the arcana of international politics rather than mere civil crime. However, we had as yet no indication that this might be the case, and until we did, I could see no point in consulting him.
I voiced my objections, and when I had finished, I added, "And aside from that, Mycroft will not be at home for some hours yet."
Unruffled, Holmes laid a generous tip on the white cloth and escorted me to the door with that formality that masks an iron command.
He was silent in the taxi. I watched him covertly while the food and the purposeful movement of the taxi did their work and everyday reality took root, and by the time the housekeeper had let us into Mycroft's unoccupied rooms, I had recovered sufficiently to begin worrying about the effect this episode would have on Holmes. I sank into a soft chair and let Holmes pull up his chair and take out his tobacco. I cleared my throat.
"I really am most sorry for that lapse, Holmes," I said quietly. "As you know, it is difficult for me to be indifferent when it comes to